


Capua Way

by gaygreekgladiator (ama), rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/gaygreekgladiator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random days at various businesses on Capua Way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epona Styling by rivlee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuriositet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriositet/gifts), [amorekay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorekay/gifts).



> For the Spartacus-fic-a-thon. I actually do apologize about this.

**_Epona Styling_ **

The annoyingly cheerful sounds of Saxa and Nasir singing *N SYNC at nine in the morning woke Gannicus up from his sleep in the back office. He never understood how people could be awake and cheerful before noon and without three cups of coffee in their system. He stumbled out of his office, growled at the smiling faces of his employees, and stumbled next door to Melitta’s café.

“Coffee,” he demanded. 

Melitta carefully rolled up the sports section of her newspaper and whacked him over the head. “You slept in your office again.”

“Coffee,” Gannicus repeated. He was not going to answer anything without the blessed thrill of caffeine in his blood. 

She shook her head. “I’m calling Oenomaus. He’ll take you home and see you cleaned up. For the love of god, Gannicus, you have to start taking care of yourself.”

“Coffee,” he repeated for a third time before resting his head on the counter. 

 

*********************

Noon was a much more reasonable time to do business, and Gannicus waltzed into his salon with a smile on his face. Everyone was at their normal stations. Nasir was proving the stuck-up yuppie soccer moms wrong by giving them manicures way too nice for the relatively cheap price they paid. Naevia and Diona were exchanging amused glances behind the heads of Lucretia and Gaia who were in for yet another consultation; it was a near daily thing with those two. Lugo was at the reception desk cheerfully greeting everyone who entered. Saxa and Pietros were both relaxing until their normal clients arrived.

“Don’t you two have things to clean?” Gannicus asked as he passed by.

Saxa snorted. “It’s so much more amusing to see Nasir look up every five seconds to try and catch sight of new bookstore guy.”

Gannicus looked to Pietros in confusion. “The one with the white-body dreds,” Pietros said. He shuddered. “So wrong on so many levels.”

“Some of us had misspent youths,” Gannicus argued.

“Your hair was still gorgeous even when you looked like Rapunzel,” Pietros said. “Barca showed me your high school pictures.”

Saxa sat-up. “How bad?”

“Gannicus’ hair was platinum,” Pietros gleefully explained.  
“And Barca had a fade, so don’t even try to mock me,” Gannicus said. He playfully swatted at both of their heads. “Either find something useful or go get lunch.”

“LUNCH,” Saxa yelled before Pietros could. She was already at Lugo’s desk and demanding petty cash before Pietros got off his chair.

“How the hell does she do that?” Pietros asked.

Gannicus shook his head. “She is a wild thing of beauty.”

The salon had started off as a joke, really, at first. Gannicus didn’t know what to do in college; Oenomaus forced him into business classes and somehow, they’d convinced Gannicus’ uncle to fund the start-up of this salon. He almost missed the old days, when it was just Gannicus, Oenomaus, and Melitta. They’d all stumbled through the cosmetology classes together and had somehow made _Epona_ a success. It still baffled Gannicus that the _one_ thing in life he succeeded at was the last thing he expected to ever work. Six years later and he was still here, with regular clients, breaking more than even, and a staff he kind of adored. Attius was even trying to get him to expand to a second location with just a barbershop. Gannicus never dreamed he’d be _franchised_. He’d just always been fascinated by hair; different types, textures, styles, cuts, designs, everything about it. He’d made good hiring decisions along the way and it allowed him to expand from simple cut, color, and style, to _actual_ stylist consultations. 

He thought it a drug-induced dream sometimes, but then he woke up with the remnants of someone else’s cut hair in his shoes, and knew it was real.

*******************

Nasir and Pietros were dusting the product shelves, a ridiculous thing Gannicus only had because the company representatives were so damn persuasive, and people watching. Gannicus couldn’t help the fond smile he had for the two youngest of his crew. 

“I wouldn’t mind giving _him_ a nice, long shave,” Nasir said.

“Even as a man in a happily committed relationship, I agree,” Pietros said.

Of course then they said shit like that, and Gannicus was forced to remember they were both barely old enough to legally drink, and how much he did not want to ponder their sex lives.

“New bookstore guy with the terrible hair?” Gannicus asked as he joined them. He could admit the guy looked nice if you went for the ripped-jeans and faded classic rock t-shirt type. “I didn’t know you liked them that bulky, Nasir. I got a friend Dagan that would be perfect for you.”

“Why? Because he can trace his ancestral lines back to Damascus too?” Nasir deadpanned.

“Possibly,” Gannicus said, “but I was thinking more nice smile and really tall.”

Pietros shook his head. “Don’t do it. Gannicus has horrible taste. Besides, unless Dagan has an ass like that, you’d be wasting perfectly good flirting time.”

“Fuck you, I do not have horrible taste.” He did take a peek at the guy’s ass. Yeah, Dagan’s was nice, but Nasir was already a goner. “Also, get back to work,” he ordered.

“Shouldn’t we be neighborly and take some of our flyers over to the newest residents of Capua Way?” Diona asked. She looked up at him all innocent and kind.

They all turned to him then with youthful smiles, and talks about expanding business contacts. All three of them, little wide-eyed kittens combining their evil powers, were going to make his life miserable if he didn’t let them go. 

“Fucking fine, go!” He waved to the door. “Bring me back a coffee and pick up any interesting kid’s books so Lugo doesn’t have to entertain the next brat by reading the ingredient labels.”

“If you let us have a television, this wouldn’t be a problem,” Lugo said. 

“Back to work,” he ordered all of them. Except, of course, the three little minions who were already across the street and bombarding new bookstore guy with their personalities. 

*****************

“Oh, thank Jesus fucking Christ, the sensible ones are here,” Gannicus said when Donar and Mira showed up. 

“Getting too old to handle the kids?” Donar asked. He deposited a cup of coffee in front of Gannicus like the amazing employee he was. 

“They’re just so fresh-faced and eager,” Gannicus muttered. He sighed as Mira massaged his scalp. “You’re not getting a bonus.”

“I’ll work it out of you eventually,” she said. She went to the desk and looked over the appointment book. “Tertulla again?”

“I think she’s lonely,” Gannicus said. 

It wasn’t uncommon to find some people stopping by the salon each week, their older clients almost every day, because they worked hard to make it feel like home. Gannicus didn’t want anyone to walk through the door and feel like just because it wasn’t a SuperCuts, they didn’t belong. Some of their wealthier clients like Tertulla, spouses of busy lawyers or doctors, stopped by for late appointments and stayed while they closed the shop. She dropped by during the week while she ran her errands. With one son at college and the other at boarding school, she had no one else but the dogs in her huge house. They’d all taken her out for a cup of coffee at least once. 

He’d scheduled her with Donar tonight; he was surprisingly good at listening. 

Mira shoved at his shoulder. “Get the hell out of here, boss. We got this. No falling asleep in your office again.”

“Melitta called you?”

Donar and Mira nodded. 

He rolled his eyes. God save him from the meddling people that populated his life. He loved every last one of them too much to be healthy.


	2. The Brothers Geiszler by rivlee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second Story: The Brothers Geiszler

Duro Geiszler liked to think he’s was an understanding brother. He never protested the drunken text messages contemplating the meaning of life at four in the morning. He’d gladly opened his home to his elder brother when Agron finished graduate school with no job and little prospects. He’d helped move Agron’s shit across the country so he wouldn’t have to pay for movers. This though, this was something even _he_ couldn’t take with a straight face.

“Agron, for the love god, the salon guy is _not_ trying to kill you.” 

Agron looked up from where he was shifting through a box of new books and pointed to the perfectly normal container of homemade trail mix. “People don’t just bring strangers random gifts of food.”

“Yes, they do,” Duro said. He threw one of the raisins at Agron’s head. “It’s called the Welcome Wagon or some shit. People with manners do that; Nasir’s just welcoming you to the street.” He smirked as his brother’s head perked up. “That’s his name, by the way. Nasir Samara if you need the full thing to write down in your notebook as your draw little hearts around your initials.”

Agron glared at him, but the slight twitch around his nose gave him away. Nasir was a nice kid; Duro first met him when he moved here. When Duro had started as a tech at Argyris Garage, Nasir was one of the inventory kids. Duro was still amazed that the little skinny-armed bastard with the magenta-and-blue dyed hair had smoothed out his edges and filled out into the current Nasir. The kid wanted to be a stylist and also had a talent for fashion, those were two things Agron would _never_ be, but in a lot of ways he was like Agron.

Agron and Nasir were both thinkers. Duro threw darts at the map and went wherever they landed. It was just pure luck that the place he wandered to after he graduated from his vocational college turned out to be everything he needed. He was a lead mechanic now, and yeah, okay, so he sort of hooked up with his boss and stayed there, but the sleeping-his-way-to-the-top jokes were worth having Auctus in his life. Besides, Auctus handed all the body shop and detailing shit. Attius was Duro’s _real_ boss. He gagged at the thought of even sharing a bed with Attius.

“What?” Agron asked. He rolled his eyes. “For the last fucking time, Duro, you’re _not_ allergic to Charles Dickens.”

Duro hadn’t even realized Agron was holding a copy of _Little Dorrit_ in his hands. He shuddered as he flashbacked to the horrible years of attempting a normal high school career. Agron was always the son who loved words and critical thinking. Agron had devoured language as a kid and dreamed of being Indiana Jones. Duro had taken apart their cd players and clock radios before putting them back together. They were only fourteen months apart, and it had fucking sucked when Duro realized he’d never succeed in a typical high school. He needed something tangible, to work with his hands, rather than spend times discussing the symbolism in _Brave New World_ and _Native Son_. His school counselor had been a friggin’ miracle worker when she manipulated his school’s vocational program and state’s test requirements to get Duro more of the classes he _needed_ and less of the bullshit he didn’t. What the hell was Duro going to do with fucking Oceanography? He feared anything deeper than a puddle. 

Agron, though, the fucker had excelled at Early and Middle English literature. He’d moved on to Medieval German Literature and been stuck in a world of battles, mythology, and bird symbolism ever since. It wasn’t the most profitable of subjects, but it made Agron really fucking happy and his big bro deserved it. 

When Duro heard Chadara and Laeta were going to move their bookstore location from Campania Ave to Capua Way, he immediately asked if they needed new help for the larger location. Agron still kept-up with his tutoring job, but now he had books around him (and Chadara and Laeta had someone to reach the top shelves. Chadara, especially, was glad to finally retire the Cursed Stepstool of Broken Ankles). 

“Where the hell do you keep going?” Agron asked. He scratched at his scalp. “Like, if you’re so fucking bored, please take your motor-oil soaked ass back to your garage.”

Duro shook his head. “I’ll be right back. You stay right there.” He jumped up and smoothed down the wrinkles in his shirt before jogging across the street. He waved to Lugo as he marched back to Gannicus’ office. He paused only to knock on the door before opening. “Can I borrow Nasir for a follicle intervention?”

Gannicus looked up in surprise, stopping mid-chew on his donut. “What?” he asked.

“What?” Nasir asked.

Duro pointed across the street. “I’m sure you’ve seen my brother. He works across the street.”

“ _That’s_ your brother?” Nasir asked. He punched Duro in the shoulder. “You could’ve fucking told us.”

“I’ve been busy,” Duro said. Between celebrating Auctus’ return from some stupid conference and general work hell, he hadn’t been down this end of Capua Way in a week. “Look, he’s got a new job; he’s starting a new path or whatthefuckever. It’s time to cut his hair.”

Gannicus cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t that be his decision?”

Duro shook his head. “Nah, Ag’s…look, he’s a creature of habit. He gets really fucking grumpy when his routine is thrown off and he’s a Master Pouter. He won’t do this unless I call his bluff. Auctus’ insults over the past six months haven’t worked, so I’m taking a stand. So, if he’s willing, can I borrow Nasir?”

“He’s willing,” Nasir said from over Duro’s shoulder. He had to stand on his tip-toes and Duro laughed at how, even looking like a fucking movie star, Nasir could still be baby bunny adorable.

Nasir kicked his shin. “Stop looking at me like I’m a fluffy stuffed animal.”

“But you are,” the whole salon answered.

Nasir pointed to Lugo. He stood, cleared his throat, and announced, “Fuck you all.”

Gannicus rolled his eyes. “Go! Go and do not darken my office door again unless you bring coffee or food. Also, I need my oil changed and expect it not to take five hours when I next come in.”

Duro gave him a one-finger salute. “It only takes that long because you and Attius go out back and grill hamburgers and leave the rest of us to clean-up the mess of a Saturday rush.” Duro looked around. “Can we borrow some clippers? Shears? Pruning things? What do you use to cut that shit off? I used a knife out of pure boredom for my hair, but I think Chadara might be pissed at the mess.”

Gannicus pinched his brow. “Pietros, fucking go with them or they’re going to cut off New Bookstore Guy’s ear.”

“You got it, boss,” Pietros yelled. 

The three of them scampered out of the salon before Gannicus could change his mind. Pietros had his kit clutched to his chest and looked ready for war, while Nasir suddenly came to a halt at the bookstore’s door.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Duro asked. 

Nasir frowned. “I don’t know if I should be here. I mean, Pietros makes sense, he has skill, but unless your brother wants a manicure, I don’t need to be here.”

Duro _really_ hoped he wasn’t this oblivious when he was wavering over his feelings for Auctus. From Pietros’ small laugh as he looked at the two of them, he had a bad feeling he was even worse. 

“Just get inside,” Duro said. 

It was a damn good thing the store wasn’t technically open for business yet, because they had a mission. He locked the door and turned around to meet his brother’s terrified face. “Agron, this is a hair intervention. I’d talk about the beard thing right now, but baby steps. Look, you’re not in college anymore.”

“Says the man with the nose ring,” Agron said.

Pietros patted Duro’s shoulder. “It fits you though.”

“Thanks, bro,” Duro said. He turned back to Agron. “Agron, it’s time to shed your follicle cocoon and emerge like the nicely shorn butterfly I know you can be. It’s time to stop dating your right hand, because that’s only you can get with a hairstyle that should’ve died with Day Glo, and meet the rest of the world.” He patted Nasir’s shoulder. “Like Nasir, he’s a Leo, likes Leonard Cohen, and can recite the poems of Adonis in three languages. You might remember him being referred to as Inventory Grunt.”

“Uh, fuck you,” Nasir said.

Agron scoffed. “ _That’s_ Inventory Grunt? I thought he had like Rainbow Brite hair.”

“It was Shy Violet and a color experimentation gone badly,” Nasir said. 

Pietros grimaced. “Sorry about that. I got better.”

Duro pointed to Pietros. “Pietros here, you might remember me calling him Birdhouse Building Bastard, is going to cut your hair, free of charge. Nasir and I will be guarding the door to make sure you don’t run away.”

“Seriously?” Agron asked giving Nasir an once-over.

“Bro, remember Aurelia? Do I _really_ need to remind you how dangerous the tiny, quiet ones can be?”

Agron shook his head and winced. Aurelia had kicked him so hard in the balls once even Duro still felt it. To be fair, Agron had deserved it, but still, fucking painful to think about.

“Let’s go,” Pietros said as he carefully took Agron’s arm. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Duro waved at them as Agron directed Pietros to the bathroom. “Oh, Agron?”

“Yeah?” Agron asked.

Duro smirked. “Not that Pietros isn’t capable of defending himself, especially with a sharp, pointy object in his hands, but his boyfriend is Barca Elissa.”

Agron tripped over a stack of books and fell into the wall. “The baseball player?” he asked.

Pietros nodded. “He likes to use our salon during the season because no one expects him to go to something so plebian.”

It was the type of conversation topic that would settle both Pietros and Agron’s nerves. Duro smiled at them like a proud parent. He glanced to Nasir who looked part awestruck and part confused. Duro slung an arm over his shoulder and walked them over to the trail mix.

“By the way,” he said, “Agron’s a Capricorn, tells everyone his favorite band is AC/DC when it’s really Within Temptation, and he is easily wooed by discussions of old as hell literature. I’d brush up on my _Poetic Edda_ if I was you.”

Nasir glared at him as he picked at his food. “Don’t you have a job you need to get back to?”

Duro shrugged. “I rarely abuse my privileges of sleeping with one of my bosses. I don’t have any appointments until 4:30, so we’re good.”

The store was filled by Agron’s laugh; Nasir immediately looked up at the sound. Duro just leaned back, threw a handful of yogurt covered raisins in his mouth, and waited for his plan to fall into place. He’d only been working at it, dropping little hints about the other, for the past five years. It was about damn time they both finally met and got on with their lives together. 

“Should we try to change his clothing style?” Duro asked.

Nasir glared at him. “Absolutely not, don’t you dare even try.”

Duro nodded. Yup, a completely perfect plan.


	3. I Could Be Centerfield by rivlee

In less than two days, Barca Elissa would see his sixth straight Opening Day as the starting Center Fielder for the Carolina Hawks. Barca’s mind should’ve been occupied with that; of the distinct smell of the dugout, the freshly mown and painted grass, the cheers of the new and long-time fans, and the whole general spectacle that came with the official start of a 142 games, plus the hopeful wish of a post-season run towards the World Series. He wasn’t though; he was focused on the excitement of going _home_.

He hadn’t seen Pietros in six weeks. He got it now, why most of the guys and their families lived near their Spring Training camps and then temporarily re-located for the summer months during the season. Last year he hadn’t known life _with_ Pietros, so he couldn’t miss it _without_ him. His eyes strayed to the small metal pigeon keychain in his hands. It’d become his touchstone these past two months.

“When did pigeons become rabbit foots?” Castus asked.

Barca looked up to meet the curious smile of his first baseman. Castus came to the team through a winter trade with Tampa Bay. He’d brought a whole other level of personality, dirty jokes, and actual talent to the clubhouse. He’d also become something like a good friend over the past six weeks. Castus was easy to talk to, and unlike some other assholes on the team, didn’t judge Barca for being who he was. It was hard enough to be Barca Elissa on a regular day. Being an actively playing out baseball star? Yeah, there was a reason why he’d been with the Hawks, MLB’s newest expansion team, since he started his career. If the Hawks didn’t stick with him, no one else would likely take him, no matter his On Base Percentage, Batting Average, and lack of fielding errors. It was something his father liked to remind him of whenever he felt like voicing his extreme disappointment and disapproval in his son.

Barca tightened his hold on the keychain until the metal outline of the pigeon’s wings impressed themselves on his flesh. 

“It was a gift,” Barca said. 

“An important one,” Castus guessed. 

Barca knew he was grinning as he thought of Pietros; of the hesitant words that tumbled from his mouth when he handed the gift to Barca. He kept mumbling about how it was just a thing that reminded him of Barca, how it was a stupid gift and a stupid idea to give it to him. Pietros had blushed that day; it was Barca’s first clear sign that he was doing more than just amusing an old jackass who had tipped him well when he did his hair and kept coming back to demand his attention. Barca’s gut still pleasantly twisted when he thought of that day; he could still smell the dogwood flowers in the air, remember the feel of Pietros’ fingers rubbing against his own as he passed the small brown bag over; the utter fucking joy that ripped through him when realized that maybe Pietros thought about Barca as much as Barca thought about him. 

“My partner gave it to me, back when we were still friends.”

Castus held up his fingers and made quotation marks.

Barca shook his head. “No, really, I swear to god we were nothing but friends at the time. I…fuck; this is going to get embarrassing if I talk about it.”

Castus tapped his watch. “We got the time and I got the ears to listen.”

There was an earnest truth there, and Barca, burned by teammates in the past, had to wonder. “You do know about me, right?”

Castus snorted. “Who doesn’t? It’s like part of your official name now. _Barca Elissa, Center Fiedler for the Carolina Hawks and an Openly Gay Man, caught the final out in today’s game_. I don’t know how you put up with that shit.”

That very phrase had, indeed, accompanied his name more times than he could count. “Just have to live through it,” he said. “It’s a fucking head trip to deal with, but there are worse things.” He closed his eyes and smiled at the memory. “I was getting my truck fixed at my ex’s garage when I got bored. It was a slow day in the shop, and I didn’t exactly want to pass the time listening to him bitch about the oh-so-trying details of living with the love of his friggin’ life. To be fair, it was said love-of-his-life that sent me to down to the salon. He just kindly directed me out of the garage and pointed me down the street. Fucker said I looked like I could use a manicure and a scalp massage.”

“He sounds…fun.”

“You don’t try to explain Duro; you just humor him. He’s so fucking smug though. He’s like a master matchmaker, and if he wasn’t so sneaky and good about it, we’d probably all hate him.”

“He _is_ good at it though?”

Barca looked down at the hand-woven cloth bracelet on his wrist and thought of crisp fall days, watching as Pietros’ nimble fingers braided the threads.

“Damn good,” he said as he remembered.

*************************

Bells tinkled as Barca ducked his head and pushed open the door of _Epona Styling_. The place was filled with the whirr of blow-dryers and the smell of hair dye. A small, yet brawny, man behind the desk looked up at him. He finished a verse of what sounded like _99 Luftballons_ before he smiled at Barca. 

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked, just a tad louder than necessary for an inside-voice.

“Uh, no,” Barca said. “My truck’s getting fixed; Duro said I should come down here for a manicure.”

The man snorted. “He could use one himself.” He held out a meaty paw of a hand. “I’m Lugo. Our manicurist is out, but Pietros’ is here. He does basic scalp massages. Sounds like a thing you need.”

“Thanks, Lugo,” he said as he took his hand. “That sounds lovely.” He ran his free hand over his hair. “This mess can give me a headache sometimes.”

Lugo grinned. “But it is gorgeous.” He looked down at his computer. “What name should I put in?”

Barca almost gaped; it was often in this city, where sports were practically a religion, that _anyone_ had to ask his name. Perhaps Lugo wasn’t a baseball fan. Either way, it still made Barca laugh as he gave his name. He didn’t have a long wait before a warm voice called him.

Barca looked up and promptly fumbled the magazine in his hands. He was pretty damn certain a man wasn’t allowed to be _that_ attractive when he obviously still had some years to fill into his tall and lanky frame.

“Barca?” the young man questioned again.

“Uh, present; I mean here; I mean me,” Barca said. 

A small smile of perfectly straight, white teeth greeted his words. Barca was going to fucking kill Duro. He was going to use him as batting practice. Fucking hell.

It got worse as the appointment went on. Barca needed Pietros’ hands on him _always_.

“You need to get these moisturized soon,” Pietros said as he ran his fingers through Barca’s locs. “I’m sure you have a normal stylist, but they’re shit if they haven’t talked about it. This hair is too gorgeous to ruin.”

Barca laughed. “My work takes me away a lot; I try to do it myself when I have the time.”

“And those batting helmets must be murder,” Pietros said. 

If Barca’s hands weren’t already gripping the arms of his chair to _not_ try and touch Pietros, he would’ve fallen out.

Barca opened his eyes to look at Pietros’ face and laughed when Pietros shook his head. “Please, you’re one of the few decent players who doesn’t have his head stuck up his ass. _Everyone_ knows who you are.”

“Lugo doesn’t,” Barca said. 

Pietros rolled his eyes. “Lugo thinks olive loaf is an acceptable part of a club sandwich. You have to ignore him.”

Somewhere between the scalp massage and the eye rolling, Barca started to fall really fucking hard.

********************

“Olive loaf?” Castus asked.

Barca nodded. “Lugo’s an odd one; hell of a guy though.”

Castus laughed and nudged Barca’s shoulder. “So, how’d you get from cruising on a random hair stylist to dating him?”

“Fucking Duro,” Barca said. “You’ll meet him. His shop works on all the guys’ cars. Trust me, in the next few months, you’ll curse his name a lot.”

“He can’t be that bad,” Castus said.

Barca just shook his head in sympathy. Duro was a whole other level of well-meaning meddling. No one was safe from his schemes.

********************

“Hey, superstar, go get me some fucking coffee. My tax dollars pay for your ballpark, you can get me a gallon of liquid gold,” Duro yelled from the shop floor.

Barca glared at Auctus. “Out of all men, you _had_ to pick that one.”

Auctus still got that besotted look after four fucking years with Duro. It would make Barca gag if it honestly wasn’t kind of sweet. “He’s got his good points,” Auctus said. He bumped shoulders with Barca. “He’s right though; our coffee pot is broken and those boys will mutiny if they don’t get a fix soon.”

Barca didn’t trust the smile there. “This is a set-up,” he said.

Auctus shrugged. “Ask yourself this, Barca: is it easier to just go with the set-up, or is it worth it to deal with a displeased Duro.”

“Fuck,” Barca said as he eyes widened. He was out the door and down to Melitta’s café in record time. “I need to supply a company of grease monkey addicts,” he told her as he entered. 

Melitta pointed to a huge tray of coffee and food. “That’ll be $43.98.”

He handed his card over as he stared at the vast amounts of crap. “How the hell am I supposed to carry this?”

“Get help,” Melitta said. She pushed the store phone over to him. “If you press _2_ , you’ll get right to Gannicus’ office. I’m sure he can spare some of his employees for this mission.” She smiled. “Luckily for you, I already called in reinforcements.”

Barca turned and saw Pietros and another young man, smaller with vaguely dyed-goldenrod hair, coming their way. He squinted. “Fuck, is that Nasir?”

“He tried some home hair-coloring,” Melitta said. “Gannicus is still laughing over it.”

“Hey you,” Pietros said as he opened the door. His fucking smile would give Barca a heart attack. “You guys played a hell of a game last night.”

That was a way to describe the thirteen innings that finally concluded just after midnight. Spartacus had hit the homer that ended the hell. Barca was just happy it didn’t go seventeen innings like the one game from last season.

“Thanks,” he said. He nodded at Nasir and decided _not_ to say anything about the hair. “Melitta enlisted you guys to help?”

“Can’t let the mechanics go hungry,” Nasir said. “They’re whiny brats even when well-fed, and I don’t want to see a protest parade around Capua Way again.”

Pietros nodded. “Nasir should know; he used to be their inventory grunt.”

Barca frowned. “I don’t remember you.”

Nasir sighed. “I was about three inches shorter which made it hard for me to see over the purposefully high raised counter and my hair was more magenta then.”

Barca searched his mind and thought. “Oh, holy shit, you’re Strawberry Shortcake!”

Nasir buried his head in his hands as Pietros laughed at him. “Yes,” Nasir mumbled, “that was one of my names thanks to Attius.”

Melitta snapped her fingers. “You’re adorable, but get out of my shop before the soccer moms come in and spend an hour touching Barca’s arms and talking about how tall he is, and buying nothing.”

They left before she could threaten with with a broom. Barca did feel awkward walking between the two younger men down Capua Way. Pietros was tall, but not near Barca’s height. Poor Nasir was just above his elbow. They had inside jokes and talked about the businesses on the road, and the people who worked in them. It was insight into a whole other world. Barca liked seeing it; he’d lived here for five years and still didn’t know much of it outside of his normal haunts.

When they got back to the garage, Duro grabbed the coffee and told Pietros to go feed the birds.

“What?” Barca asked. 

Pietros snagged a loaf of bread from the breakroom in one arm, and Barca’s arm with the other. “Duro only lets Auctus take care of a handful of pigeons, but they still leave some food out for the others.”

Ah, yes, Auctus and his bird thing. “I never really got it.”

“Neither do I,” Pietros agreed, “but it’s kind of funny to watch them.”

Barca didn’t resists as Pietros dragged him out back, even though Barca and Auctus’ feathered friends had never got along.

*************************

 

“Pigeons?” Castus asked. He looked unconvinced. “Pigeons, seriously?”

Barca nodded. “Pigeons. One tried to nest in my hair that day and it was only Pietros, being coached by Auctus, that got it out without incident.” 

Castus frowned. “So, the keychain happened soon after that?”

Barca laughed. “It was right before the All-Star Break. I was getting ready to fly out Phoenix and, I sort of kidnapped him from work and dragged him out for a picnic lunch.”

Castus gagged. “I don’t want to remember the embarrassment of last year’s All-Star game, or the one before that. Tell me, please, how you were seduced by a metal pigeon.”

“I wasn’t seduced,” Barca argued. “I just…had final confirmation that I could probably back Pietros into a wall and get to know him without being kicked in the balls or stabbed with a pair of shears.”

********************

Pietros was sitting next to him in the park. Pietros with his tiny smile, and that adorable mole above his lip and next to his nose that Barca always thought about kissing, and his open face. Pietros who was fiddling with a paper bag in his hands and shuffling his feet, and looking more uncertain than Barca had ever seen him.

“I know you have to leave, like, tonight,” Pietros said, “but I saw this in the store yesterday, and I couldn’t pass it up, and you’re leaving to party for like three days with your baseball friends and groupies, so, um, here.”

“I don’t have groupies,” Barca said as he took the small bag. He let himself have a moment; to revel in the touch of those soft fingers against his own.

Pietros scoffed. “You _really_ don’t Google yourself, do you?”

He hadn’t since ESPN decided to do at least one feature a year on his _struggles_. He carefully opened the bag and actually laughed at what he found inside; a small metal pigeon on a keychain. Barca let it drop into his palm as he gave it a closer look. Pietros had thought of him and bought a gift; it was a small, touching act that Barca would’ve never expected. 

“I know it’s not much,” Pietros said, “hell, you could probably get one made out of platinum if you wanted to, but I just always remember your face when the pigeon got stuck in your hair and it makes me smile, and this was stupid, but it just really made me smile as I thought of you, and oh fuck, why am I still talking.”

“Because Duro is a horrible influence,” Barca said. He slipped the keychain in his pocket, keeping it close to his skin, before he cupped Pietros’ cheek. “Thank you, for thinking of me.”

“It’s nothing,” Pietros insisted.

“It’s something,” Barca corrected. He wanted to remember this moment as he rubbed his thumb under Pietros’ chin. He wanted to remember the feel of the heat on his back, the smell in the air, how sweat was starting to bead on Pietros’ forehead from standing too long in the sun. He even wanted to remember the quacking ducks in the background and the buzz of the inopportune landscaping workers. 

“I should—”

“Stay,” Barca said, stopping Pietros’ words. “You should stay.”

“You have to leave for Phoenix in three hours,” Pietros said. He moved closer though, sharing Barca’s space, hair brushing against Barca’s cheek. “God knows what you’ll get up to out there.”

“I’ll be on my phone texting you every five seconds until you get tired of it, and tell me to stop,” Barca admitted. It was his plan _anyway_ , outside of some drinks with the National League players he knew and rarely got to see. 

“Not possible,” Pietros murmured against Barca’s lips.

 

*********************

Barca would’ve run off the fucking plane if it wasn’t for his father’s disapproving glare boring into his back. Mago had to know Pietros was going to meet them at the airport, like the other spouses and girlfriends who didn’t live down in Tampa. 

Barca really didn’t care, but out of respect, he kept a sedate pace until he got down to baggage claim. He spotted Auctus first, and that was enough of a confusion to make him pause in concern.

“Aww, look at him, he looks like he’s about to cry,” Duro’s loudmouth yelled across the airport floor.

“Duro?” Castus asked. 

Barca nodded. He would’ve said more, but then a body slammed into him. Barca wrapped his arms around Pietros and took a deep breath of his scent. Fuck, it felt so good to have him there again.

“We’re not fucking doing that again, just so you know,” Pietros said. He tugged Barca down into a long, deep kiss that got wolf whistles from most of the team and a _Get a room_ , from Rhaskos.

“I’m hoping that’s Pietros,” Castus said, “or else I don’t want to be around when he shows up.”

Pietros pulled back, much to Barca’s sadness, and turned to Castus. “New guy?”

Castus nodded. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Pietros said. “God knows the team paid enough money to get you. Try not to fuck up the infield, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Castus muttered.

Barca waved goodbye to him before walking over to Auctus and Duro, his arms still wrapped around Pietros. “Why are you two here?”

“We decided to be nice and give you a ride home,” Auctus said.

“Try not to ruin our backseat,” Duro said. “I just made Auctus detail it.”

“Which I only had to do because you used it to move your brother’s shit,” Auctus said.

“If we argue about my brother again tonight, neither one of us will get laid, which will make me sad. Do you want me sad, Auctus?”

“NO,” everyone who knew them in the area yelled. 

The sound of Pietros’ laugh, right there in person, hit Barca right in the gut. He nuzzled Pietros’ ear. “Missed you.”

Pietros tightened his grip on Barca’s hands. “Let’s go home.”


	4. The Best Little Auto Body in Capua by rivlee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sick!Duro is not a happy!Duro.

Duro’s head was pounding and, for once, it wasn’t from the fumes of car exhaust or the body shop paint. One of the ankle-biters who wandered into _Second Star Bookshop_ had clearly infected the air around Agron, who had carried the little germs of Patient Zero home and lovingly shared them with his baby brother. Duro just wanted to be home, curled up in bed, spitefully wiping his nose on the sleeves of Auctus’ favorite Bruins jersey because the asshole wouldn’t let him have more Nyquil, with Houston making her own feline nest right beside him (and hopefully spitefully using Auctus’ boots as a litter box because he wouldn’t let her have more of the fancy treats with his false words of _she’s getting a little chubby, Duro_ ). He didn’t think that was too much to ask in life.

Alas, all his plans were dashed when Camilla called him in fucking tears. Camilla was one of the most hardcore people he knew; if she was in tears thanks to family emergencies, it was serious. Normally Argyris could handle a short staff, but not at the end of the month before Easter weekend, with all the oil changes and state inspection deadlines. One of their hourly techs should’ve been covering this shit; they’d need them to take over Camilla’s jobs though. Duro could fucking lean against the sticker machine, read the codes, and change oil in his sleep. Or his death, really, since he felt like he was about to hack up his whole respiratory system. 

“Fucking Agron,” Duro croaked. 

“You need to go the fuck home,” Aurelia yelled from the window of her accounting office. She’d already sprayed him with Lysol once today.

“End of the month,” Duro tried to yell back at her. His voice gave-out halfway. Fuck. He really couldn’t take much more. He leaned against the counter as the world started to blur around the edges. He heard the click of non-shop-floor-approved heels next to him. “You’re not supposed to be wearing those out here,” he told Aurelia.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Aurelia said. She patted his head and handed him a bottle of water. “You need to go home.”

“We could get slammed with orders,” he argued. “I just need to sit down.”

Aurelia huffed. “Well, you’re not bringing your germs into my office.”

Duro would _never_ ; he wouldn’t want Janus to get sick. He loved that kid. “Just get me to Auctus’ office. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He tapped Kerza as they shuffled by. “Watch the floor for me until Narto’s back from lunch.”

“You got it,” Kerza said. He looked hopeful in the way a puppy wanted to please its new master. 

Duro didn’t want to think about that right now.

“Wait,” he said as they passed the Parts counter. 

“I’m going to leave you in the middle of the floor,” Aurelia warned.

“One more thing,” Duro promised. He tapped on the bell as hard as he could until Santos appeared.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?” Santos asked.

“Just my pseudo-husband each morning when I wake him up,” Duro said. “Kerza’s got the floor. Call Auctus’ office is anything goes wrong. Attius is still at the Auto Auction and Narto’s still at lunch.”

Santos gave him a bored look. “I’ll try not to go mad with the power.”

Duro would’ve said more, but Aurelia was already dragging him to the auto body side of the building. It felt so nice in the cool air of Auctus’ office that Duro forget to thank Aurelia before he slid down onto the couch. He knew she wouldn’t be offended, and the soft hand that cupped his cheek was sign of forgiveness for any possible slight. The snick of the personal fridge door opening filled the room, followed by the crinkle of plastic as Aurelia placed a water bottle at Duro’s feet. It was the last sound he heard before he finally went to sleep.

 

*******************

Angry whispers woke Duro up. He blinked groggily and tried to grope for the water bottle, but he hands encountered a familiar pair of strong thighs instead. He _really_ wanted to make some comment about not while they were at work; the snot was even contaminating his sense of humor. 

“Fix it yourfuckingself,” Auctus growled.

Any other time Duro would pretty much be pulling Auctus over to a semi-secluded corner and reaping the benefits of that tone of voice, but right now, he just wanted to go back to sleep. Sleep was a nice land of candy-grass filled dreams and fluffy aliens that sang _Welcome to the Jungle_. Reality was a hellish place where Auctus wasn’t patting Duro’s hair and the smell of Kerza’s Axe body spray was choking the joy out of the air.

“They didn’t exactly cover the practical application of this in tech school,” Kerza said. 

Duro gave up; now he _had_ to know just how badly the world had fucked itself in his absence.

“What’d you do?” he asked. He tried for mocking, but it came out more death-keen.

Auctus’ hands massaged the back of Duro’s neck, and god, they needed to become independently wealthy so they could just stay at home and have Auctus do that at all times.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Auctus said.

“Kerza looks like he’s about to piss himself, so it _is_ something I need to worry about,” Duro argued. He did give up on trying to sit straight; it was better to just lean back against Auctus. “Kerza, time to share with the class.”

Kerza scratched at the stubble he called hair and looked everywhere _but_ Duro’s face. “Uh, the…um…the engine.”

Duro nodded in encouragement. “What about the engine? Did the belt break? Did someone put coolant where oil should’ve gone? Did they find a bird’s nest inside one again? Or cocaine?” Duro frowned. “Don’t tell me it was cocaine again. I don’t want to deal with the cops and the questioning.”

“It…um…it sort of caught fire,” Kerza said.

Duro needed a moment to process that piece of bullshit. “Please tell me someone stopped the fire and you didn’t waste the past fifteen minutes inviting the whole building, with its very flammable chemicals, to explode.”

“Aurelia got the fire extinguisher out before anything exploded,” Kerza said.

“Thank fucking god for Aurelia,” Auctus murmured. 

Duro nodded in agreement. “So, did you call our insurance company? The customer? Anything?”

Kerza shook his head. 

“Right,” Duro said with a nod. He settled back into Auctus’ arms. “Auctus here is going to call his cousin, you know, the co-owner of this business who agreed to run the repair side. He’s going to demand that Attius pulls his ass out of whatever bar he decided to take Gannicus to for some lunchtime liquid therapy. Attius is then going to come back here and you, Kerza, will have, by then, written up your report for just how the hell an engine caught on fire. I am going the fuck home as soon as Auctus calls his good-for-nothing cousin because I am not even supposed to be here today. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Auctus and Kerza said. 

Duro wanted to revel in the triumph, but he’d just used his last burst of energy to be a smug bastard. He curled to the side and sloppily nuzzled the skin of Auctus’ throat before giving up on anything but the thoughts of their warm bed and the cat that somehow managed to take up seventy-five percent of its space. 

Another typical day at _Argyris Auto Body & Detail_ in the bag.


	5. Gossip and Cotton Candy by rivlee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Pietros and Sura bond during a ball game.

Pietros hadn’t been able to leave work to watch Barca play on Opening Day, and night classes had kept him from the evening games during the first week. Finally—fucking finally—he had a Thursday morning off, and the Hawks were back from their road trip, and Pietros was off in time to make the 7:05 PM game start. Pietros _could’ve_ used his status to go in earlier and chill around the clubhouse, but he knew how much Barca’s father would _love_ that, and the ballplayers generally didn’t like the significant others down there messing with the magic in the air before a game. Baseball players were some of the most suspicious fucks in the world; Pietros wanted to laugh at it, but how else did you explain the Chicago Cubs? He didn’t bring anyone with him this time. He’d just sit with the wives and girlfriends like usual. Maybe Aurelia would be there with Janus tonight. He hadn’t thought to call and ask. If not, he’d just hang with Sura. 

“I heard you were coming,” Sura said. She patted the seat next to her. “I made sure I get a call if the other black sheep is here for a game.”

“It’s been three years, Sura,” Pietros said as he kissed her cheek, “I think they’ve accepted your, and Spartacus’, place.” 

Pietros and Sura turned to meet the sneering faces of Dagan’s current-team-owner-approved-girlfriend, Sonya, and Barca’s step-mom, Eva.

“Or not,” Sura said. “I’ll always be an outsider because my husband’s former team dared to beat the Hawks in the Division Series. It’s not like Spartacus asked for the trade.”

“Baltimore won it fair-and-square,” Pietros agreed. He patted her hand. “Look, Eva’s going to dislike anyone thanks to the poison Mago’s poured in her ears. Sonya, eh, I’d be pissed too if I was basically paid to appear on the arm of a ballplayer in North Carolina of all places. It’s not exactly New York style here.” He grabbed a handful of her popcorn and got comfortable. “We should hire Duro to get Dagan a decent girl.”

“He already has plans,” Sura said as she signaled to one of the vendors. “He’s trying to get Chadara to admit that it’s okay to date an asshole athlete again, because Dagan isn’t Rhaskos.” She waved a $10 at Pietros and he handed it over for two overpriced bags of cotton candy. “I mean, part of me thinks Duro should mind his own business, but the other part of me agrees with him. She’s been bitching about her love life for ages, but she has horrible taste in guys.”

“She’s not desperate enough for Duro’s special brand of help yet,” Pietros said. He gladly opened his mouth to the wad of pink cotton candy Sura held out.

She kindly wiped her hand on his shirt. “You can’t argue with his results.” She nudged him. “Remember, he was the instigating asshole who first sent Barca to get that scalp massage.”

“Manicure,” Pietros corrected. “He meant to throw Barca at Nasir.”

“Did he?” Sura asked. “Or did he call Lugo in advance to make sure Nasir wasn’t there when he sent Barca down?”

Cotton candy had never felt so heavy in Pietros’ mouth. “That little fucker,” he said.

Sura nodded as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Just embrace his power.”

Pietros wrinkled his nose at the thought and petulantly took another handful of cotton candy. He ignored the disgusted sneer of Eva, and the bored eyes of Sonya, and decided to change the subject.

“How was work?” he asked. Sura could’ve easily lived off Spartacus’ paycheck, but she remembered the years struggling to make ends meet when he worked in the Minors. She kept her job as a waitress, since it allowed her to keep her No Nonsense Badass skills at prime level. She was damn good at it too. Sura liked meeting people and hearing what the fans thought of her husband’s team. That being said, she worked with some true pure 100% USDA Prime Grade A Assholes.

“I’m going to lock Nemetes in the freezer or drop a keg on his head. I haven’t decided which yet,” she admitted. “They’re talking of hiring some new staff though, so plenty of training to come.”

A cheer went up through the crowd as the teams emerged from their dugouts for the National Anthem. Sura and Pietros stood with their arms hooked together as they listened. Their seats were behind home plate, so once the Hawks took to the grass, Pietros would lose all sight of Barca. It was easy to see him now, though. Only Dagan stood near his height. 

“I love it when they wear the white bottoms,” Sura whispered. Pietros had to cough to hide his laughter as the last strains of _The Star-Spangled Banner_ faded out into typical organ music. He remained standing to watch Barca jog out to his position at Center Field, as they started throwing the ball to keep arms loose and legs ready. Sura tugged his arm and pointed to the screen when it focused on Barca in the middle of a groin stretch. 

“Do I need to tell Sparty on you?” he asked as he took his seat.

Sura leaned forward with a pair of binoculars to watch her husband stretch out in his position as Short Stop. “Oh, trust me, he appreciates any inspiration.” 

Pietros didn’t bother to cover his laugh that time; Eva and Sonya could kiss his ass. 

************************

Soft fingers in his hair woke him up and he squinted under the harsh lights of the stadium as he tried to see the box score. Top of the ninth inning with two outs; game was almost over. Sura’s tricks, however, were not. He tapped the wrist that was attempting to slip her phone back into her purse.

“You need a new hobby,” he said.

“Everyone should see just what Barca gets to go home to, and praise him for his good luck and taste,” Sura said.

Pietros shook his head as he sat up and stretched. “Please, the fan sites will threaten to torch and pitchfork me again for falling asleep during the seventh-inning stretch.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Sura said. “I’d like to see them manage a full time job, night school, and trying to stay awake during a 3-0 game against the friggin’ Angels who have one all of one game out of the ten played so far.”

Pietros nodded in agreement as he twisted the kinks in his back out. Falling asleep in the bleachers was a stupid idea, but it was hard not to with the rhythmic clapping and chanting during a slow game. He dreamed of the _Jaws_ theme in the middle of the night thanks to all the games he had watched. Pietros had always loved baseball, _The Sandlot_ was his favorite movie as a kid, but it was a little different when you were dating the pro ball player. 

Pop fly to centerfield, an easy catch for Barca, and the game was over. Pietros whistled as loud as he could when Barca came into the infield for the final handshakes with the Angels. It was only enough to get a quick head raise and a nod, but it let Barca know Pietros was there. 

“Did you drive here?” Sura asked.

“Nah, Duro dropped me off,” he said. “Can we wait in your car?”

“What, you don’t want to feel all special in the clubhouse?” she teased.

Pietros rolled his eyes. He was not ready to be assaulted with the smell of old Gatorade, dip, chewed bubblegum, sunflower seeds, pine tar, sweat, too many opposing body sprays, washes, and colognes from various men, not to mention the general locker room stench. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “did you want to spend the night pushing through the crowd of crew, VIP fans, reporters, and Baseball Annies who managed to sneak in?”

Sura poked Pietros in the shoulder. “I don’t like you sometimes.”

“You love me always,” Pietros said as he held her hand and guided her out of the aisle.

“Well, you are pretty fucking adorable,” she agreed. 

The elevator down to the players’ parking section was packed with friends, spouses, and family. Sura and Pietros clung to each other in the back corner to avoid any possible eye contact with Eva. Pietros wasn’t really in for a lecture about how his mere presence was tarnishing the image of the team. Or the question of why couldn’t he stay home so the press wouldn’t have a field day with the actual boyfriend of Barca Elissa being around.

Seriously, Pietros couldn’t _wait_ for Mago to either retire or move to a different team. He’d only rejoice more if the Hawks actually won a World Series. Eva’s glare in the reflection of the elevator’s door was enough to sour his good mood.

“You know, it’s not that I believe that any stepmothers are truly evil,” Sura suddenly said, “but I do think some _have_ to fit the mold, or else why would the trope exist? I mean, at the end of the day, as long as a parent loves their child, and supports them with things they didn’t choose, step-foster-blood-whatever, you have to respect that parent. I mean, it’s one thing if the kid turned out be a cannibal serial killer; it’s a complete other if they just, you know, didn’t fit into the mold of what a society with its head stuck up its own ass deems normal.” 

“Right on, Sura!” Aquilina, Liscus’ wife, said.

“You’re my favorite,” Pietros whispered into Sura’s ear.

She patted his back. “I know.” 

They waited in Sura’s car for the boys to come out. It would be another half-hour at the very least. Varro would be one of the last to leave for anyone who needed his advice or help as the team trainer. The guys who had spent the night on the bullpen and the bench were already sneaking out, but Spartacus and Barca would have showers and interviews to handle first. 

Sura turned on the radio. “How much do you think they’d hate me if I started blaring Taylor Swift right now?”

Pietros dug through her console until he found the cd stash. He pulled one out and handed it to her. “Oh, we both know you can do better.” He rolled down the windows as Sura inserted the cd and the Spice Girls’ _Wannabe_ started to fill the parking deck. Their expert car dancing moment was ruined by the sudden camera flash and outright friggin’ giggles of a few Hawks players.

“I hope the windshield glare ruins your masterpiece,” Sura yelled at her husband. 

Spartacus shrugged and took another picture as Sura rolled her eyes at him. Barca and Castus stood with him; Barca just shook his head and started to walk towards the car, but Castus hugged his sides as he kept laughing.

“I think we’ve broken that one,” Pietros said. “That’s a shame.”

“Well, he’s living in my guest bedroom. He was bound to lose his sanity before the month was out,” Sura said. She kissed Pietros’ cheek. “Go give your man a big old slap on the ass for me.”

“Gladly,” Pietros said. “I’ll call you when we get home.”

“You better, or I’ll hunt you down,” she promised. 

Pietros slid out of the car and into Barca’s waiting arms. It’d been nearly thirteen hours since they last kissed, and just no, that would not do, when Barca was actually in the same city as Pietros.

“Aww, young love,” Castus said. “We should be taping that instead.”

“Castus either get into the car now or I will drag you into it by your short hairs,” Sura said.

Castus frowned. “Spartacus, bro, I can honestly say I have faced down 113 miles per hour fastballs that have terrified me less than your wife.”

“Just remember that,” Spartacus said. He patted Pietros’ hair. “I know we bored you tonight, but you need to take some time for yourself, Pietros. We can’t have you falling asleep while driving or some shit.”

Spartacus, always concerned, even about a kid he’d only known for three years. “It was just mid-terms this week that fucked me over. I promise I’ll be more careful. Look, I knew with Sura at my side it was relatively safe enough to take a nap.”

“Survival sense of a lemming,” Castus said.

Pietros grinned at him. “Castus, I am very close friends with one of the lead mechanics at the garage where your car is being worked on. He’s a trouble-making little bastard who will gleefully laugh an evil laugh if I even _suggest_ some modifications to your beloved car’s interior.”

“You’re bluffing,” Castus said even as he slid his bag into the backseat.

“You really want to take that bet?” Pietros asked. 

Castus rolled his eyes. “I kind of trust the head of the body shop has more sway than your mechanic friend.”

“Not when the mechanic’s sleeping with him,” Pietros said.

“Shit,” Castus cursed. “Fine, Pietros, you win this round. I will remember this.” He patted Pietros’ face and winked at Barca, before sliding into his seat and locking the door behind him. 

They waved to the three in the car before Barca tugged on Pietros’ hand and guided him over to his truck. 

“Did you enjoy the game, for what little you saw of it?” Barca asked. He palmed the back of Pietros’ head and pulled him in close. 

“Hey,” Pietros said, “I was awake until right after _Take Me Out to the Ball Game_. It’s just been a long week.”

“Maybe Spartacus has a point,” Barca said.

“Maybe bite me,” Pietros answered. He laughed when Barca went to do just that. “Oh, now I see why Duro always says that to Auctus.”

“Oh, you’ve ruined it,” Barca said. He frowned when Pietros reached into his pocket and snatched his keys. “I don’t think you should be driving if you’re that tired.”

“Barca, I just car danced to 90s pop with Sura. I’m more awake than I’ve been all day. You, on the other hand, just had batting practice, a full game, reporter time, and look worn out. So, get your gear in the back and get in the truck or I will pout.”

“Can’t have that,” Barca said. He did as he was told though. 

Pietros took a moment to think as he climbed into the truck and adjusted the seat. Their relationship wasn’t perfect. The initial shine had faded during the stress of the post-season two years ago. It was lonely, honestly, to be with someone whose job always took them away. A lot of important events were missed, on both their sides. Pietros couldn’t be there for every possible career milestone Barca would reach and, in all likelihood, Barca would be absent for Pietros’ graduation ceremonies. He didn’t even have a kid to worry about, like Aurelia, but it still really sucked some days. Nasir had been the one to ask him if it was worth it, one night when Pietros’ got spectacularly maudlin and whined for a good two hours and half a cheesecake. Pietros hadn’t had to think about it; his automatic answer was yes and it remained so.

“Hey,” he said, as he fingered two of Barca’s braids. 

“Hey,” Barca said. He placed his hand over Pietros’ own and rubbed his thumb over the inside of Pietros’ wrist. “Ready to drive us home?”

“As you wish,” Pietros said. He grinned when Barca leaned over and stole a kiss. 

Not perfect, not by any means, but it was still more than Pietros ever expected to find in life.


	6. Rings by gaygreekgladiator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features Shai, an OMC featured in my fic "Other Stories." His faceclaim is French model Willy Cartier, and this fic was inspired by this picture of him, taken from Frank Ocean's Instagram. http://img.over-blog-kiwi.com/0/25/63/52/201211/ob_2d59a4f86f850c4669e8617264405c41_willy-carter-rings.jpg
> 
> This takes place just after spring training, Castus's second season on the team.

Castus had been to The House Cafe many, many times over the previous year. It was a miracle that it was as homey as it was, really, given that it had become the unofficial hangout for three-quarters of a top-ranked baseball team. One would expect it to be crawling with fans and paparazzi, but something (he was guessing Melitta’s Care Bear Death Stare or her husband’s propensity for shouting) kept them at bay.

Not to say it was _quiet_ by any means. On most of his previous visits, the café had been… well, full of loud, obnoxious, buoyant baseball players. But every once in a while, you could still walk into it at 10:35 on a Tuesday, right between the breakfast and lunch rushes, and find only the proprietress, her foster daughter, a few seniors chatting in the corner, and a room full of empty booths.

And on this particular Tuesday, a booth in which a familiar figure sat, his back to Castus. He zeroed in on it right away—the hair was a giveaway—and his face was split by a grin.

“Hey, you,” he said as he slid into the booth opposite him.

“Good morning,” Shai said with a smile. There were two mugs before him; he slid one over to Castus, who accepted it gratefully.

“You’re an angel.” He took a deep sip and, for the first time, his eyes fell to Shai’s torso, and he almost choked. “An angel in my shirt.”

Shai feigned innocence, leaned back, and ran a hand through his hair. The action just so happened to show off his shirt—a striped, dark blue Hawks jersey with a white 12 stitched on the shoulder.

“Oh, this? Yeah, I got it the other day on sale. 20 dollars. What do you think?”

Castus cleared his throat.

“I think… you look _good_ in my shirt,” he said finally. His voice was a little rough, because the constant mantra of _we’re in public we’re in public we’re in public_ was really not helping at all, and Shai glanced at him warningly over the rim of his cup of tea.

That was enough to dampen Castus’s spirits, and he frowned into his coffee. He had been dating Shai for ten months now—the entire time he had lived in Capua, basically, minus that one month spent barking up the wrong manicurist tree—and he had never been in a better relationship. But… it could have been better. They could go out more, and to restaurants that weren’t “friend” restaurants. Castus could stop checking over his shoulder for cameras every time he went to Shai’s apartment. They could actually greet each other with a kiss on dates, on the street, in his own friggin’ doorway. He could reach across the table, right now, and take Shai’s hand.

He sighed, and wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup.

“So what’s up? How’s work?”

Shai shrugged and propped his chin in his hand. His multitude of silver rings sparkled even in the fluorescent lights of the café.

“It’s work. Last night “the Nemetes” taught me how to make a drink strong enough to knock out a horse,” he said, rolling his eyes. His fingers jerked in brief air quotes, and Castus winced in sympathy. Shai spent a lot of time talking about the asshole bartender, who referred to himself in the third person and valued alcohol content over taste. “…the new waitress and Marcia bonded over their sex lives way too much, but in a way that made the whole thing terribly amusing, and I am eighty-five percent sure that I got groped by a preacher.” Suddenly he brightened, his eyes widening and his fingers dancing excitedly around the rim of his cup. “But Trebius promised me one song at open mic night this Thursday. After my shift is over. When basically everyone has left, because again—Thursday night.”

“Yeah, onstage is onstage,” Castus grinned. “Congratulations. And call me before you go on, okay? I want to see you.”

“Thanks,” Shai beamed. “What about you? How’s work going?” he asked teasingly.

“Well, I don’t mean to brag, but we are going to kick ass this season.” They chatted for a little while about spring training and general things, before Castus hesitated, his eyes watching Shai’s expression intently. He glanced around the café to confirm that there was no one close by. “…and I’ve been talking to Heracleo a lot lately,” he finished.

At the mention of his manager’s name, Shai’s eyes flickered up cautiously. He kept his voice casual.

“About doing—interviews and things?”

“Yes. I want to do it midseason, in between some of the less-important games. Get it over with, you know? And if the questions get too aggravating, all I have to do is trot out the ‘I’d rather focus on the game’ shit and I look more devoted. Heracleo wants to wait until the season is over—plus a few weeks, for respectability. Doesn’t look like I’m begging for the spotlight at the expense of my team.”

“But?” Shai said shrewdly.

“But I want to get it over with. If it drags out too long, I honestly don’t know if it’ll ever happen.”

Shai nodded slowly, and for a moment he was deep in thought, staring over Castus’s shoulder. Finally he seemed to have reached a conclusion, and he gave a small, jerky nod, almost to himself.

“You should talk to Barca.”

“ _There_ we go. Let a few fans take pictures of us with our heads close together, rumors spread like wildfire, and before you know it, I’m out and dating Barca Elissa. There are worse positions to be in.”

Shai didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“I’m serious. You should ask him for advice.”

“I don’t know…”

“Castus, Heracleo knows shit,” Shai said firmly, and Castus’s eyebrows shot right up. “I know you two are close, but he’s never done this before, and the two of you are in completely different positions. Barca’s the only person you know whose actually been in this situation.”

“Not the same situation,” Castus corrected quietly. He reached across the table and tightly grasped Shai’s hand in his own. “Barca was single.”

Shai looked at him for a moment, surprised, and then carefully withdrew his fingers.

“This is about you. I’m not a part of it.”

“Shai… I know we haven’t been together that long—I mean—in the grand scheme of things, between the travelling and everything, but.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not going to ignore you in this. I can’t. You always underestimate how much I care for you, but I love you and honestly, the fact that you’re here makes everything… so much better. I understand if you don’t want to be a part of it. It’s a lot to handle, and not necessarily worth it—”

“Tu sais que je t’adore [1] ,” Shai mumbled sharply. “But _you_ are a good old American baseball player about to embark on a promising second season with a top-ranked baseball team, and _I_ am a waiter whose mixed ancestry and accent will make people uncomfortable, never mind the fact that I hate being in pictures and smiling on command and answering personal questions. Heracleo will tell you—you’re better off without me on this one.”

His voice came fast and unnecessarily loud, and there was a ringing pause after his words. Castus could hear his foot tapping anxiously beneath the table. Shai looked away and lifted his tea to his lips. His fingers scratched absently at his elbow.

Before he could think, Castus found himself taking his phone out of his pocket and snapping a quick picture. There was no time to frame it; the focal point actually ended up being the sugar packets, but off to the side was a perfect shot of Shai’s fingers, long and thin and decked with a multitude of silver rings. Shai had a weakness for jewelry, and Castus had a weakness for buying him jewelry.

“What are you doing?”

“You need to be in pictures more often. Look at this—I didn’t even catch your face, and you’re stunning.”

He held up the phone, and Shai rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“If this thing lasts, which I sincerely hope it does, you’re going to be in pictures and people are going to know about you,” Castus explained patiently as he uploaded the picture to Instagram. And then Facebook. And then tweeted it. “Think of this as practice.”

“Now what are you doing?”

Castus handed over his phone, and Shai stared at it in mute shock for a moment.

“You have five hundred thousand followers,” he said weakly. “Castus, you just shared a photo of me with five hundred thousand people.”

“Mmhm. Five hundred thousand people who know that you are a Hawks fan with excellent taste in jewelry. Relax. Shai, I won’t tell anyone about you—about us—until you’re ready. But don’t ask me to pretend like I’m doing this alone, okay? Because I’m not. I’m doing it with you, like I want to do _everything_ with you. Always.”

The conversation was getting way too intense for a coffee shop at eleven am, but Castus couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. After a long, long pause, Shai handed the phone back to him and cleared his throat.

“I should—go. And you should come with me. The fact that I’ve worn your jersey this long without you tearing it off is absolutely ridiculous, and I don’t think I can listen to you say things like that without touching you.”

“Absolutely,” Castus said happily.

Just as he was going to leave the booth, however, Melitta appeared at the end of their table with a fresh pot of coffee.

“Freshen your cup?” she asked cheerfully, and leaned over to fill Castus’s mug before either could respond. As she did, she spoke in a low, but perfectly chipper voice. “Just so you boys know, this partition is actually very thin and this booth is not the best place to have conversations that should probably go unheard. My daughter eavesdropped on this entire conversation—”

“ _Melitta_ ,” Sibyl hissed miserably. “I wasn’t eavesdropping! I can’t leave the register and it seemed rude to just—”

“Now don’t worry about a thing,” Melitta continued as Castus looked nervously at Shai. “I was friends with Barca in _middle school_ , for crying out loud—I think I can keep a secret quite discretely.”

Suddenly, the door banged open.

“Melitta!” Duro shouted. “I told Auctus I would get coffee but then Pietros and I started taunting Nasir about his sex life and that was forty five minutes ago. He is going to _kill_ me!”

Melitta sighed.

“ _That_ _one_ cannot.”

“We were just leaving,” Shai said hastily, standing up. “Thank you,” he added in an undertone.

“Don’t mention it.”

Shai glanced back at Castus and slipped out the door. Castus sort of wanted to chase him, and walk quickly back to Shai’s apartment clutching his hand and giggling—but that would have to wait. He mustered up a friendly smile and went over to chat for a moment with Duro, who was staring after Shai curiously.

“Who was that?”

“A friend,” Castus said breezily.

“Duh. He is really, really attractive.” Castus couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. Most men in a committed (and monogamous—he had his ways of finding out) relationship weren’t quite that… open about it. But then again, this was Duro. “Is he single?”

“No.”

Duro looked at him appraisingly for a moment, and shrugged.

“Too bad. You wanna come watch Auctus kill me?”

“Can’t. I have a thing.”

“Well, go do your thing, man,” Duro said with a wide grin. “Have fun.”

Castus looked out through the windows onto the sunny street outside. Shai’s apartment building was just across the street and a few buildings down. A dark-blue blob disappeared through the door of the building, and Castus smiled to himself.

“Thanks, I think I will,” he said, and went out to chase his boyfriend.

 

* * *

 

 

 [1]You know that I love you.


	7. Many the Miles by rivlee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two sides of a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teeny tiny bit of barca/pietros fluff.

Pietros was trying to make his way through _The Divine Comedy_ , but it just wasn’t happening. There was something about being introduced to the Underworld by Vergil that made hell seem even more hellish. He checked the time; 10:05pm, the Hawks were playing the Mariners, and Barca wouldn’t be done until long after Pietros _should_ be asleep. 

Pietros flipped to the game, thanking god for expanded cable sport packages, and muted the commentators so he could watch Barca work in peace. He always missed the home uniforms, but grey didn’t look _bad_ on Barca. The game was just starting and, if all went well, Barca would be on his screen soon as the number four hitter. Castus was lead-off tonight, which wasn’t surprising with Lydon’s current slump. Pietros had a little thing he did whenever Barca was away, and he had the chance to catch the game. He settled back in their bed and grabbed his cell phone, ready to flood Barca’s personal locked twitter with his live tweets as he watched the game. 

He started with the usual. _I miss you, but you still look fucking hot._ He waited a few minutes to watch Barca on the bench, joking with Spartacus and Hamilcar. _If I find out you’re using dip again, I will rip your braids out one-by-one._ One out, one single, another batter up, and Pietros leaned forward to watch Barca in the on-deck circle. He could see just the hint of a braided leather bracelet when Barca readjusted his batting gloves. The fucking liar had said he never wore that out on the field for fear of losing it in the grass or on the dirt. That deserved another message. _Pro Tip: remember your boyfriend can watch all your games, you lying liar who lies._

It continued like that until the fifth inning when Pietros had to finally admit defeat, because he did have to work in the morning. He sent one last message before turning the tv off. _Dreaming of post-game-and-zestfully-clean-you._

Barca would be back home in two weeks; Pietros had handled longer road-trips and time away, but it still sucked to sleep alone after growing used to a Barca-filled bed. In the morning he’d shower and use Barca’s body wash to remind himself of one of the many things that made up that scent; the one that had made Pietros pulse rush since he first laid his hands on Barca’s head. He’d drink his morning coffee out of Barca’s favorite mug, and then he’d go to work and listen to either the praise or complaints on his boyfriend’s performance in the Hawks game. Rinse and repeat until the Hawks came home again. 

Right before he went to bed he sent one last tweet. Then he snuggled up, resting his head on Barca’s pillow, and finally gave into his body’s demand for rest. 

*****************

Barca frowned when he got out of the shower and still saw no messages on his phone from Pietros. He probably didn’t get a chance to catch the game, but he almost always called or texted before going to sleep. Unless, of course, he fell asleep on top of his laptop, books, or both again, without Barca there to coax him to bed. They kept re-hashing the same argument whenever they were in the same city; Pietros _could_ afford to cut down on his shifts at Epona Styling if he’d just allow Barca to help. He understood the need, the pride, that came with standing on your own, but Pietros was heading straight for burn-out. Barca tried to ease the burden as much as he could, with a whole team of others backing him, but Pietros showed no signs of slowing down. He’d even vocally contemplated doing summer classes; a thing only stopped by Duro’s kindly reminders that Pietros would be slammed enough by work during the summer, what with everyone wanting to get all fancy for weddings, summer dates, and general functions. Barca didn’t know if there was really such an increase in business, he was never really around long enough in the summer, but it was enough to get Pietros to pause.

“Stop looking so fucking grim,” Varro said as he checked the ice surrounding Dagan’s knees. “He fucking liveblogged the game up until the fifth inning.”

“Thanks, Varro,” Barca said.

Varro sighed and shook his head. “To be so young and in love again.”

“I’m older than you.”

“Only in years, Barca, only in years,” Varro reminded him. “You still got some life lessons to learn there, grandpa. Don’t start yelling at the kids on your lawn just yet.”

He turned to the loud guffaws of Castus and Lydon coming from the showers. “But they’re so loud,” he muttered.

“If you were that young, and in Castus’ case, full of endorsement deals, you’d act like a little jackass too. They’re good kids, Barca, pretty grounded all things considered. They could have their heads firmly implanted up their own asses like Crixus.” He gripped Barca’s shoulder. “Go back to the hotel so you can read the tweets and laugh, and grin, and cry in a way that won’t ruin your reputation in the clubhouse. Dagan and I will handle the babies.”

“Just don’t lose half your paycheck on a card game again, or Aurelia might actually kill you this time,” Barca warned. 

Back in the hotel room Barca pushed the comforter off the bed with his foot. He’d gotten to know people who worked in the hotel business after all his travel time. It was lucky if that shit got cleaned once a month. Sheets, blankets? Yeah, those were changed regularly. The comforters? Well, _CSI_ didn’t get that shit wrong. He turned the television on for some background noise, keeping to the _Castle_ marathon he inevitably found. He settled down and grabbed his iPad to look through Pietros long-line of tweets. He nearly lost his breath from laughter as Pietros’ messages started to clearly show his lack of sleep. The last made him let out a happy little gasp. He let his fingers hover over the letters there on the screen.

_I love this bed, but I don’t like it without you in it. Need those snores to sleep :P_

There were some nights where Barca really could not give one iota of a single fuck for what his father thought about him; or the close-minded assholes who protested him playing on any team, much less one in North Carolina; or even his agent, Titus, whispering in his ear about lost endorsement and appearance deals. He was careful with his money; he already had a few franchises talking about hitting coach positions for when he decided to retire. He’d become a person whose private life had to be semi-public; he was a role model in more ways than just an athlete. So that night, he didn’t care about what verbal abuse his father would offer in the morning. All he cared about was the fact that Pietros, probably beyond exhausted, had taken the time to tweet his observations on one of Barca’s games where _only_ their friends could see it. It wasn’t a play done to garner attention or the ravings of those who followed the significant others of sports athletes. It was just Pietros being Pietros. So Barca decided to do something special in return. He took a pic of his arm, making sure to catch the bracelets around his wrist woven by Pietros’ hand, resting on the empty pillow next to him. He logged on to his public instagram account and posted it with one simple caption. 

_@trospiestyle I hate this bed, and I hate it even more without you in it. I need the pointy elbows of vengeance to nudge me halfway through the night to stop the snoring. Sweet dreams, my sleep-deprived heart. I’ll see you in two weeks._

If any of the jackasses in the clubhouses said anything about his reputation tomorrow morning, well, he’d just take his revenge during fielding practice. 


	8. Sweet Summer Nights by Rivlee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a Home Run Derby a few years in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Alex's tumblr prompt: Value Me, Barca/Pietros, modern or canon 'verse, with Pietros being drunk and giggly and Barca not believing him at first. The character of Shai's is Alex's.

Pietros was a little drunk, he was very warm, and he was ecstatically happy. He was sitting on the edge of the grass of a professional baseball field, surrounded by a group of players and family and friends of other players, watching the All Star Game’s Home Run Derby. Of the four players selected to compete from the American League’s team, two were from the Hawks. Barca was one and Castus the other, Martinez from the Astros and Kauffman from the Red Sox rounding out the team. The crowd was extra-loud today, since two of the hometown players were in the Derby, and six in all were voted into the All-Star Game. 

“Can you believe we’re doing this?” Shai yelled over the noise of the crowd as the sound of bat hitting ball echoed in the air. 

Pietros laughed as Barca launched another one into the upper decks. Barca was laughing too, looking more relaxed than Pietros had ever seen him on the field outside of practice. He finally looked away from the flexing of Barca’s arms when little Janus ran full-speed into his back. 

“Does your mother know you’re out here?” he asked. 

Janus shook his head full of golden curls as he crawled into Pietros’ lap. “Daddy’s supposed to watch.”

“Daddy’s probably gambling ace bandages with the other team trainers over who is going to win,” Shai said. He stood up and brushed the grass off his knees. “I’ll go grab Janus’ bag of wonder before Aurelia and/or the press starts yelling about child neglect.”

“No boy should be absent his sippy-cup,” Pietros agreed. He took the official All-Star Game baseball cap beside him and stuck it on Janus’ head to keep the setting sun out of his eyes. “Can you see your Uncle Barca?”

Janus nodded. “He makes the loud boom sound.”

Another homer launched itself into the cheap seats. “BOOM!” Janus yelled.

***********************

Barca was a round away from winning the derby. Castus had just lost the last one, but he didn’t look too upset, if the fingers tangling in Shai’s hair and the smile on his face were any clue. 

“You know, considering he’s supposed to be in the twilight of his career, people are going to wonder where all his power came from this season,” Kauffman said.

“Improved cardio,” Pietros said before he could stop himself. He glared at the beer in his hand before shaking his head. He’d gone past buzzed to the start of the giggles now. He only had himself and Shai to blame.

“Oh, what new routine has he been doing?” Kauffman asked.

Fuck it; Pietros gave over to his giggles, even as Shai started to choke on air. Castus, the charming fucker, just grinned. “I believe it’s called the Pietros Method,” he said. “I don’t think it’s your style, Kauffman. The wife might object, but eh, you never know, she might be up to that sort of thing.”

“Stop teasing him,” Shai said. He tugged on Castus’ earring. “You’re being rude, and sharing more than you have the right.”

“Oh, come on, he left himself wide open,” Castus said. “Pietros, you agree?”

Kauffman’s face went blank. “You’re Pietros?” he asked.

Pietros nodded, and waited for the inevitable fall out. Kauffman slapped his back. “Holy shit, man, I didn’t realize that. I knew you were Barca’s partner, but I mixed up the names. I thought you were Shai. My baby brother has the biggest crush on you. He wanted me to go to your salon just so I could say we breathed the same air. Holy shit, he’s going to fucking lose it when I tell him I got to sit beside you. He loves your whole group. So who’s Shai?”

Shai held up his hand. “Yo,” he said.

“And Chadara isn’t here, right?” Kauffman asked.

Pietros felt like he might have entered an alternate reality where professional athletes apparently had siblings that formed fandoms around the instagram and twitter shenanigans. “She’s visiting Dagan’s parents during the break.”

The gold baseball flashed on the field before them, which meant Barca was down to his last out. He succeeded the first time, the second, the third, and then he was done. Pietros sat forward to look at the scoreboard as the crowd cheered and chanted Barca’s name.

Thirty-eight home runs total. Ten in the final around to Chesterhouse’s eight. Barca had just won the Home Run Derby. On his home field. With Pietros right there to watch. With all the press knowing who Pietros was to Barca. 

“Holy shit, I’m going to puke,” Pietros said. 

“WATER,” Kauffman called. 

“Don’t puke,” Shai said as he slid over. His advance was slowed by Castus, who refused to let go of his hair. “Look, Barca’s going to come over here. He’s going to, at the very least, hug the shit out of you, because he’s happy, and you’re really fucking proud of him. So you’re going to take a deep breath, stand-up, and smile.” 

“Right,” Pietros said. He stood, as did all the players present, and they clapped for Barca. Barca was stalling, and Pietros could see his hands shaking in shock or surprise, as he stripped off his batting glove and handed it, and his bat, to the bat boy. Barca was first congratulated by his American League teammates, but he looked over all their heads for Pietros. Pietros waved and Barca nodded at him. 

There were microphones and cameras shoved in Barca’s face as he did the professional athlete thing, and accepted his trophy. He raised it above his head and Pietros had to stifle his own laugh about it never being so high. The poor camera crews were going to break their necks if they had to keep leaning back. Most of the press dispersed and that’s when Barca made his move. 

“Hold this,” he said to Castus, who gleefully took the trophy.

“You’ll have your own one day,” he heard Shai promise him.

Pietros didn’t pay attention to much else then; all he had was focused on Barca. He looked so fucking happy. There was sweat all over his face, and tired tremors in his arms. His hair was coming out of its hold, he probably needed about a gallon of water, but his arms were around Pietros and he hugged him so tight, he lifted Pietros off the fucking ground.

“Your father is going to shit a brick,” Pietros said.

“Fuck ‘em all,” Barca answered.

Pietros nodded than gripped the back of Barca’s head and pulled him into a ferocious kiss. There was only so much they could do out here, in public, with cameras on them, and children about. There were flashes going off and Pietros knew some asshole was already starting a protest of tomorrow’s game, but fuck ‘em all.

***************************

Press wasn’t supposed to be allowed inside the _House Café_ , but as long as they paid and didn’t offed Melitta or Sibyl, Oenomaus wouldn’t throw them out the door. Pietros was _happy_ , as he curled into Barca’s side and slowly sipped his water and ate his sandwich until the alcohol, and the giggling, wore off. The poor reporter kept looking at Pietros like he couldn’t believe he was real; only to stop when Barca cleared his throat and glared.

“Are you worried about how your actions tonight will impact your career?” the reporter asked.

“I stopped caring long ago,” Barca said. “Who I love has nothing to do with how well I play ball; it’s something my father always failed to understand and tried to shame me for my whole life. I’m nearing forty, and have no desire to become a career Designated Hitter. There are things I value more in life; cherish more,” he said as he palmed the back of Pietros neck, “and I need to secure that future.” 

“I am _not_ going anywhere,” Pietros said. “Besides, Duro always said he could use you to help keep the garage in-line, since apparently Attius doesn’t know how to lead, and Auctus defaults to glaring at people, and Aurelia has enough to worry about. Duro can only get Houston to shit in Auctus’ shoes so many times a week.”

Barca kissed Pietros’ temple. “You are so very drunk, and will regret all this babbling in the morning.”

“My best friends are Nasir, Chadara, and Duro. I left shame long ago,” Pietros said. He pushed the plate of home fries over to the reporter. “You should eat something, dude. You look ready to drop. You have what, another three hours after this to write, edit, and meet your deadline for the morning papers? Eat up, scribe.”

The reporter tentatively chewed as he turned his gaze to Pietros. “Is the drinking a common thing?”

Pietros tilted his head back on to Barca’s arm. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he addressed the ceiling tiles. “I was at a baseball game, on a warm summer night, with some of my best friends, and new friends, watching the love of my life hit homerun after homerun. That’s an event that clearly falls into the respectable social drinking situation guidelines. Sorry, you’re not going to get your headline grabbing sob story from me. I’ve got one for you though: _Barca Elissa May Be a Free Agent, But He’s Off the Market_.” Pietros lifted his head and ran a thumb over Barca’s lips. “ _Very_ off the market.”

“And has been for years,” Barca agreed, as Pietros’ other hand played with the leather bracelets on Barca’s arm. 

Pietros turned back to the reporter, seeing the realization dawn on his face, as everything slid into place. 

“I think it’s a good one,” the reporter said. He took one more home fry and stood. “I do have to make my deadline. Thanks for the interview.”

“Just write it with respect,” Barca said.

“Imagine you’re writing about your own kid,” Pietros added. He smiled when the reporter nodded. “Nice guy. What was his name again?”

Barca laughed into Pietros’ hair. “How did you get so drunk?”

“Shai, then Castus, and your friend Kauffman there didn’t help. Then Varro plied me with the expensive shit for watching Janus during the first round. Many people contributed to my state this evening.”

“Of course they did,” Barca said. “That was James Peirastas. He’s done a few pieces on me before. He’s more concerned about respect than page hits. Heracleo and Titus are thinking of approaching him to write the memoirs of me and Castus.”

“That could be interesting,” Pietros said. 

Barca nodded. “I have to find something to keep me busy next year.”

Pietros laughed. “Why? Are you planning on sleeping through the season?”

“I’m planning on retiring,” Barca said. “I’ve been on the road for almost two decades. I want to _stay_ for once.”

Pietros didn’t know if this night could honestly be real. He’d be so angry if he woke up in the morning to find it was a dream brought about by Duro’s food experiments and Shai’s musical chants. He’d wanted that, for so long, but only if it was for the right reasons.

“You’re not doing it because you think no other team will sign you, right? You’re not doing it because you’ve got that stupid fucked-up idea in your head that I’m going to leave you for some fucking banker? You’re doing it for _yourself_ , yes?”

“Completely selfish reasons,” Barca swore. “So, do you think you’ll be able to stand me being around all the time?”

Pietros cradled Barca’s face in his hands, and looked at him, _really_ looked into him for the first time in weeks. Barca had been lighter this whole season; everyone had noticed it so far, where he at once seemed so stoic and serious, he was laughing during games now. Pietros wondered what had brought about the change, and he finally understood. Barca had made his mind up. He wouldn’t announce it until after the post-season, to simply make sure the spotlight was on the teams competing for their World Series rings. Nothing anyone could say would change his mind. Barca talking about building a house and buying all those gardening handbooks suddenly made more sense now. He’d made Pietros pick out his favorite paint sample colors at Home Depot just last week, claiming he was going to repaint the apartment; but they hadn’t bought any paint that day. 

Pietros had to swallow down the sudden welling of emotion, even as he could feel the tears in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, “I think I can manage to handle that.”


End file.
